Thorin's Spring
by kkolmakov
Summary: Spring comes to the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Glimpses into the heart of Thorin Oakenshield through years. Initially based on the prompt on Tumblr "renewal" but developed into multi-chapter assortment of consecutive one-shots *No infringement intended* Smut, smut and a bit of mushy goodness.
1. Chapter 1

Your first spring with Thorin Oakenshield comes seemingly instantaneously, bursting in birds' songs and white and pink blossoms, branches of trees suddenly heavy, air sweet and heady. The snow disappears as it seems over one day, sky strikingly blue, every breath you take crispy and intoxicating. Meltwater is running on the sides of passages, children happily shouting in high pitch voices. Halls and streets are suddenly busy, chambers are being cleaned, everyone and everything stirring and awakening, You are running down the stone steps to the Front Gate, jumping over puddles like a child, swinging a basket in your hand. You are almost out of the city when the voice of your King stops you in your tracks. "Where are you rushing to, my haban?" the tender yet condescending moniker that he will abandon later makes you turn around on your heels. The King is standing leaning to a wall, mirth bubbling in cold blue eyes. He takes your breath away, his wide frame imposing, sunlight playing in the silver strands in the raven hair, his regal composure unwavered and commanding. "I have some herbs I need to find. I think I saw them outside the wall," you smile softly, sensibly avoiding the question of the King following you and overseeing your movements. Before he makes a comment, you smile again and pleasantly offer, "Would my King like to accompany me? I would feel much safer." He is silent for a second and then nods his dignified askew nod you are so familiar with, while keeping his eyes on you, pinning you with his icy gaze.

You two walk slowly towards the gate, the King seemingly lost in his thoughts and you finally enjoying sunshine and wind caressing your hair. You certainly do not share Dwarves' inclination to dwell underground, but that is a small price to pay for the company. When you step out of the city, you walk off the road and into the side bushes. You step carefully, looking under your feet. Thorin follows you without sparing a glance to the ground. You have to place your palm on his shoulder to stop him from stepping on a few first snowdrops peeking between boulders. Picking up your skirts, you bend in front of the gentle flowers. You touch a tender petal with a tip of your finger. "Galanthus," you whisper, lost in memories of your childhood, spent in the woods surrounding you grandmother's village. You lift your face and see your King intently looking at you with an unreadable expression. You smile into his piercing eyes and stroll ahead. "What are these?" his low voice rumbles behind you. You turn around and look at the plants he is pointing at. Slightly deeper in the bushes you see the white flowers of Anemone. You smirk, "I bet you will love these, my Lord. They are called White Splendour." "Quite a pompous name for such an assuming little thing," he is looking down at the small white blossoms. "And yet it is irreplaceable for treating some diseases." He seems sincerely interested and bends to pick up a white flower. "Which one?" "Monthly pains," you feign innocence to see if he drops the flower in terror and disgust. He screws his eyes to see if you are teasing him but your face is schooled in the most earnest expression. He stares at the tiny white floret between his thick calloused finger and then, to your deepest astonishment, he gently places it into your hair. He smiles with the corners of his mouth into you wide open eyes and continues to walk through bushes.

You have spent the previous three months in his home and in his bed, but you understand quite clearly that you two are just at the beginning of your path. And it is clear that if you were not to tread carefully, the journey could end before its time. You follow his steps staring at the wide back of your lover, clad in a soft blue shirt and a light chainmail. A single short sword is strapped to his belt. Judging by the modicum of weapons that is indeed just a walk in the woods, but you cannot shake off a feeling that there is some other hidden goal for your King to follow you into the woods. Previously you made it clear that treating any less respectfully than any Dwarf would be a mistake, caging you or enforcing his will on you would only result in your leaving. You were given your chambers where you are rarely disturbed, at the same you are graciously invited to join your King at every meal that he partakes at home as well as any trip that does not pose danger to your life. You politely decline any hunts but have accompanied him to negotiations and family visits. You share bed every night when your melhekh is not away, even if not for lovemaking. There were a few nights when he would knock at the door of your room, many hours after sunset, after a lengthy errand and being invited he would silently slip under covers. You would feel his large warm body envelop you and having buried his nose in your hair he would repose, with you physically feeling tension leaving his shoulders and arms, his breathing slowing down, heart beating evenly. Some nights you would stay in his chambers, especially when feeling too exhausted and sated after lovemaking.

And yet, Thorin, son of Thrain, son Thror preserved a great distance between your spirits, and that is no less than a deviancy for you. Sharing your body, your nights and days, your magic, your heart with a man and not being able to openly speak your mind or clearly see his is troublesome. Nonetheless, your heart would not let you even ponder separating from him. He possesses it, like no man before him, all of him dear and fascinating. The temper, the stubbornness, the unreasonable pride, the sometimes childish peevishness, the battle scars adorning his body, the nightmares that wake him up, his teeth and fists clenched in silent attempts to suppress the shivers, cold sweat glistening on his brow, the surprisingly tender caresses and kisses he bestows all over your body, hot and raspy murmuring in Khuzdul while his hands roam your body, and low moans and cries you can elicit out of him.

You silently tread deeper in the forest and soon your are surrounded with trees and tall bushes. You absent-mindedly pick up herbs and flowers, thoughtlessly filling your basket, until you step out in a small clearing and your King sits down on a fallen tree. You look at him with a question in your eyes and he pats his knee with a large palm. That is a first time your King has encouraged such an informal arrangement, and it thrills you beyond measure. The only delinquencies you have enjoyed so far were a few kisses stolen in the halls and shadowed corridors and several nights spent in a tent. Your devious nature has been rebelling against such tame intimacy for a while, but you knew that pressuring him would be unwise. His inhibitions seemed to disappear rather quickly on their own. You slip on his lap and wrap your arms around his neck. He nuzzles your neck and pressing his lips behind your ear he asks, "Are you contented, my haban?" You sigh but cannot hinder it any longer. "I am. But I have a favour to ask, my Lord," you feel him tense. You look into his eyes. They are cold and distant. His face, so beautiful and expressive in the dim light of your bedchambers, bears no emotion, but only if one does not know where to look. And it has been two long years since you started looking. The light crease between his brows, guarded firm line of lips, his magnificent neck tense, you are looking at a Dwarf whose heart bears a shield just as his name. "My melhekh," your Khuzdul is exceptional, you have always had a talent for languages, "I would really enjoy a different appellation," you caress his nape, treading your fingers into the thick raven mane, a move you know to be rather efficacious with your King. "I do not particularly enjoy being compared to material goods." "It only signifies how precious you are to me, kurdu," he stubbornly insists. Well, "heart" is better than "gem", even though you sometimes doubt you are allowed access to his. "And you are to me, my King," you mollifyingly place a restrained kiss on his lips.

As a sparkle on dry wood, it spurs him and he presses you into his body. His lips are greedy and possessive. He shifts one knee, and lifting you as if you weigh nothing he turns you to face him. Your skirts bunching around your waist, you wrap your legs around his waist. He suddenly slows down, his kisses less thirsty, more languished. You sneak a peek from under your lashes and you see that his eyes are half open. You cannot believe it, he is keeping his guard while you are straddling him, pressing your sex into his quite obvious erection. Your ambitious side flaring up, you press your breasts into him and pulling his hair aggressively you suck at his bottom lip. You see his eyes close and a low rumble reverberates through him. You double your efforts, adding small rotating movements of hips. His hands are grabbing your buttocks, your back, slide into your hair. You hear him moan and proceed to move your hands to his belt. "Kurdu," he tears his lips from yours, "is it wise?" "Thorin," your voice is commanding and, to be honest, breathy, you did not realize that this little game is effecting you that much, "damn with wise!" You tug at the buckle and the belt is flying into the grass. And at this moment for the first time you are subjected to the wonder that is the cocked brow of an aroused Thorin Oakenshield. And what a wonder it is! The glorious, mouth-watering, panties-dropping, black and smooth, paired with a lopsided smug smirk, the brow curves up. Fire and hunger swirl up low in your body, all sense going down in flames. With a irritated scoffing noise, you grab the bottom of the chainmail and in a swift smooth move you pull it off his body. The shirt follows and the delectable shoulders and chest are at your disposal. And disposing is exactly what you proceed to do! At some moment he slightly pushes your upper body from his and yanks your dress off you. Your undertunic and the undergarment are thin and see-through, the day is warm and you wanted to enjoy not being bundled after so many months of cold. His rough palms are already on your naked breasts and you hear tearing of fabric. You tut-tut and push his hands away. You take off the tunic but are not quick enough with the bottoms. While you are struggling with the strings on his breeches he pulls the delicate material to the opposite sides with both of his large hands, mindful not to hurt you though, and destroyed undergarments fall on the ground. You are holding his jerking cock in your hand and do not care at all. With a half cry, half sob you sink on his shaft, your clouded mind noticing the throaty snarl from your King. You set forceful rhythm, grounding your pelvis in him, forgetting any restraints, loud cries and libidinous moans bursting out of you. His face buried in your neck, he is crushing your hips in his strong hands, panting and groaning, biting the delicate skin on the side of your throat. When his teeth sink especially deep, you jerk your neck from him and catch his lips in a bruising kiss. You bite his bottom lip and them his ear, nails scraping his shoulders, your inner muscles clenching around him. You push his forehead with yours forcing him to look into your eyes.

"Mine," you do not know where the possessiveness comes from but the long repressed desire to get through the walls he built around his heart calls forth the honest and undisguised feverish talk. "My melhekh, my kurdu, mine, only mine," you puncture each word with a thrust of your hips, you mind fiercely searching for an adequate moniker. Your head falls back, and you open your eyes to see the blue sky above you and the glorious spring sun. You straighten up and look into the eyes of the man you love. "My urzud," you breath out and with a violent cry he shatters, his climax convulsing his body, his left hand painfully pulling your hair, the right one bruising you waist, his hips jerking up, pushing you over the edge, waves of searing pleasure flooding your body. And then your body slumps in his hands and you hang on his shoulders.

You both are shaking, intertwined and exhausted. He is the first to move. He stretches his long arm down, and trying not to shift anything else he picks up his shirt from the ground. He wraps your shoulders and softly kisses you. You notice blood on his bottom lip where you bit especially hard and smiling remorsefully you wipe it with your thumb, "Forgive me, my Lord." Suddenly, he guffaws, "If you could see your neck, kurdu, you would not apologise." You touch the tender spot on the neck. ""What have you done, brute?" you are too content to feign any indignation, "I will have to come up with some elaborate hairdo to cover it up." He is gently kissing around the bite. "Pity I do not have a beard to cover the bruise." He nuzzles your throat and says quietly, "I rather like you the way you are." "That is quite a compliment coming from a Dwarf." He pushes your chin up with his long nose and gently kisses your smooth neck. "I like your skin here," he gently rubs his nose into the hollow under your jaw, then cups your face and looks in your eyes. Something is different in his eyes. You smile and shudder. "Cold, zundush?" "Zundush?" you now cock your eyebrow. He smiles and pushes his fingers into your hair, studying the red strands between his fingers. "Your hair is the colour of robin's chest'', he smirks, "And you are so small, I can easily crush your bones, but you can always fly away. Zundush, a bird," he nods as if confirming it to himself. And then it dawns on you. "I cannot fly away from you, my heart," you press your palms on his thick beard and make his lift his face and meet your eyes, "My heart belongs to you. I am tied to you forever," you put your hand on his hot chest, his heart frantically beating under your fingers. And the moment stretches, spring sun shining above you, filling the world with warmth, quiet rustling of the awakening forest around you two, in a perfect harmony and unison, your bodies and spirits joining. You smile into his suddenly open, vulnerable eyes and speak, "You are my sun, Thorin Oakenshield."

A/N:

doc/98387422/Khuzdul-Dictionary-E-K-v01-JUN12

haban = gem

kurdu = heart

melhekh = king

urzud = sun


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This chapter is short and, let's face it, should have been just added to the end of the first one. The later ones will all be different springs in Thorin's life with the narrator. Warning: smut, smut, smut :) Enjoy!

You whisper, "You are my sun, Thorin Oakenshield," and bestow a long kiss on his lips, sealing your fate, tying yourself to his heart and his pride, promising yourself and all your world to him. He answers, his lips caressing yours, hot and swollen from previous lovemaking. You stroke wide shoulders, scrape the back of his head with your nails, and suddenly feel his erection growing in you again. You giggle and wiggle your hips a little. He cocks his brow and you snicker again. He jerks his hips up again, encouraging you to move. You moan in his mouth and then whisper, "I'm afraid I'm too weary for any more jumping, my Lord", he looks at your dubiously, "may it be so, it is your turn to do all the hard work, kurdu" He smirks and gets up on his feet abruptly. You yelp and wrap around him more tightly. "I would hardly call that hard work, you weigh nothing, zundush", he makes a few steps and presses you into a tree. You hiss feeling the bark scratching your back. He places his right palm on the trunk and pushes your weight away from it keeping his hand on it. His left hand slides underneath your buttocks, your arms wrap around his neck. He positions his feet wide and makes a tentative sway. You moan out loud, his thick cock sliding in you at an exciting new angle. He smirks a positively devious grin and thrusts again. You cry out and bury your nails in his shoulders. He hisses from pain and pleasure, and growls, "More..." You silently praise Maiar, you got yourself a kinky Dwarf. You grab handfuls of his hair and pull. He gives out an animalistic growl and thrusts again. The muscles on his neck straining, veins bulging, he sets a forceful rhythm, bobbing your feverish body on his left arm. You are squeezing him with your thighs, clenching your inner muscles around his cock, his left palm gripping your ass, surely bruising it. You throw your head back and he is biting your already tender neck. You wail out and twisting out of the trap of his greedy mouth you push his head with yours. Then you proceed to suck on his neck just below his ear, biting and sucking, his coarse beard deliciously scraping your lips and tongue. You bite his earlobe and he snarls again. Without any harbinger your orgasm hits you in a searing, breath-taking wave, you cry out and claw on him. You are soon sagging, sobbing, losing any ability to think and possibly even breath. In his frenzy he still slows down, allowing you to ride the waves, his thrusts almost turning in caresses. You moan and slowly come back to reality. You open your eyes and stare in the blazing blue eyes, his pupils dilated, nostrils flaring. You tread you fingers in his mane and pull, licking yours lips. He hastens up, thrusting even deeper, tapping in some never before disturbed corner of your insides, and the second orgasm floods you, your inner walls convulsing, your cries raspy from all the strain you have already placed on your voice. Your release spurs his, he presses into you last time with the most delicious groan, his hot seed rushing into you, a luscious sweltering surge, which causes you to whine and grind your pelvis into him. He halts, quivering and starts mindlessly shaking his head. His mane is swishing, tickling your naked breasts. You snigger, which pushes his softened cock out of you. He groans and gives you a reproachful glare. You smile and kiss the tip of his long nose. His knees are trembling but he is careful to make a few steps and gently place you back on the fallen tree you started on. Your bum is uncomfortable on the mossy bark but, for the life of you, you have no strength to complain or move. He pulls up his trousers and picks up your tunic and the dress. You both slowly dress, hiding smirks and cleaning forest riffraff from your clothes. You contemplate ruined undergarments and shove them in your basket under the herbs you have picked up. He pulls the chainmail on and picks up his sword. "Ready to go back, zundush?" his voice is velvety and affectionate. You screw you eyes at him and what a difference it is from the solemn warrior who was entering the woods with you! His brow is smooth and the line of his lips almost mild, tiny crinkles still hiding in the corners of his eyes. You loop your arm through his and together you slowly walk back into the city. Occasionally he intertwines his fingers with yours, presses them to his lips or heart. When he is not looking, you take a loving glance at the side of his face, the proud profile, thick black beard, loft luscious lashes, soft waves of his strands surrounding his face. A carefree and poised Thorin is new to you. You promise yourself that you will endeavour to explore and preserve this new precious side of him. Upon returning to the halls you are parting your ways, your mind already on the long indulgent bath you are intending to take. After a few minutes of languished sensual kisses, your King opens the door to his chambers to leave, only to bump into one of his warriors standing with his fist raised to knock. All regal dignity and composure, your King nods to the Dwarf to follow him and before the door closes, you hear the Dwarf say, "You have little something on your tunic, my Lord," before picking up a pine twig off his shoulder. You guffaw and quickly disappear behind the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Your second Spring in Erebor comes grudgingly, slowly, Winter stubbornly holding its positions, patches of snow hiding in the shadows underneath the walls of the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Birds are groggy, as if regretting their hasty return from the Southern seas. Everyone seems to be snappish, yearning for lighter clothing, children crabby from being kept inside for too long. After a few warm days cold comes back, locking everyone in halls and passages, and even the older Dwarves, ardent mountain dwellers, grumble under their breath. Your King is restless, youth spent on the road making him thirsty for open air.

Near nighttime, you come back to your chambers from visiting women in the city and find your melkekh is sitting by the window, smoking and peevishly staring in the darkening yard. He rarely invades your chambers without invitation and you take his unexpected presence as a sign that something is troubling him. You take off your cloak and pour yourself some wine. He has considerately opened the window to let the smoke out of your chambers, the air is chilly and crispy. You approach him from behind and embrace his wide shoulders. "What is bothering you, kurdu?" You press your cheeks into the warm muscles between his shoulder and neck. He exhales the smoke and turns to you. "Why do we have separated bedchambers?" You hike up your eyebrows in surprise. He pulls you on his lap and you are wondering where this is coming from. "It is unreasonable, we share bed every night, we dine together, you even have your table in my study," he is being his usual grouchy self, but you seems to be detecting additional petulance behind his words. You stroke his cheek and smile, "Because you never asked. We can share chambers if you deem it proper." "Damn with proper, I'm tired of knocking at your door in the evening and not knowing where I am spending the night," he is exaggerating and knows that. "Thorin," you draw out and try to catch his eyes. He is avoiding your stare and fractiously shakes his head. You cups his face and scratching his thick beard you murmur, "What made the mighty King Under the Mountain so grumpy today?" "I am not grumpy," he retorts but does not move away from your caresses. In fact, he half closes his eyes like a big cat. You are expecting to hear purring any moment now. "I would love to share chambers with you, my Lord, if that were to please you." "That would very much please me," you feel a large hand snake up your leg under your skirt, "and some other things would do too." You chuckle and slide your fingers into the luxurious waves of his black hair. "Close the window, kurdu," you whisper into his lips and he catches your mouth, blindly grasping behind him for the sash.

Two hours after, you set your chin down on your fist, languishly stretching on the hard chest muscles of your still panting King. "Are you sufficiently pleased, my Lord?" you ask cheekily and he gives out a bark of laughter, suspiciously reminding of a choked sob. The ability to speak apparently has not returned to the Heir of Durin and he silently nods. "Good, then we can talk about your uncalled-for brooding earlier on." He takes a deep breath and with a low groan stretches his back. Then he realizes he is still clenching the sheets, to which he was holding for dear life during your previous ministrations, and he lets go. Placing the hot large palms on your back, he starts stroking your shoulder blades. "It is spring, azyungel, everything is reviving, people are cleaning their houses, reorganize their forges… I deemed the offered changes sensible, logical..." He is clumsily evasive, avoiding a direct answer never being his forte. He is now playing with your hair, suspiciously not looking in your eyes.. "Aha, I see. The spring as in the time when the trade starts anew, and I can actually travel and practice my magic elsewhere. Am I right, my Lord?" He screws his eyes to see if you are displeased with him. You are smiling and he sighs. "How else am I supposed to ensure your stay?" he asks suddenly, and for an instant you see helplessness and vulnerability in his eyes. "By offering me your chambers?" you ask softly. "By showing you and others how highly I value your presence here," he says quietly, and then, flipping you and pressing you into the sheets, he bites your neck. "And I am indeed tired of not knowing where I sleep each night." "As if I ever refused you entering my room, my Lord." "Last week you closed the door into my face." "You were being unreasonable," you laugh. "You were unreasonable, zundush, the trip was dangerous and I wouldn't risk your safety." He is right, and you go into defense. "And if I recollect correctly, you still did spend that night in my chambers after all, kurdu." "It is because I know how to mollify your temper," he smirks between nibbles on your neck. You puff in indignation. "Temper? I am as mellow as a dove," he is chuckling but does not saying anything, busy exploring your clavicles with his lips. "Nothing to retort, my Lord?" "I am keeping my judgement to myself, I do want to stay here tonight." You gasp in feigned indignation and push him away. "The nerve in you..." He swallows your squeaky protests, pressing his hungry lips to yours, massive palms rubbing your breasts, and soon you are moaning and writhing under him.

The morning comes in warm sunlight playing on your nose. You try to bury it into your pillow, which rather inconveniently turns out to be the ribs of the King. Your nuzzling wakes him up. Ticklish as he is, he squirms away from you and with an unseemly thump he ends up on the floor in a heap of limbs and covers. You open your eyes and understand the reason for the conundrum. The delinquencies of the previous evening stretched till the early hours of morning, first as your melkekh was claiming that his foul mood had not been fully cured, then the celebration was called for as that was, in the words of your King, one of last nights that he was forced to sacrifice the comfort of his own chambers, and later you started feeling that the Dwarf was just unabashedly trying to exceed his previous record. You do not remember falling asleep, and now you find your feet on your pillows, covers in knots around your legs, as well as both of you apparently having fallen in slumber on the very edge of the bed. The King is sitting on the floor, with an amused and befuddled smile on his face. You suspect that the joviality comes from the spectacle that your ever so unruly tresses are presenting this morning, after numerous hours of thrashing on the sheets, fingers and palms rummaging through them, you yourself grasping them with one hand while the other was caressing the glorious backside of the King Under the Mountain, while he was thrusting his hips into your lips encircling his majestic cock. You sit up and stretch your back and arms. Your King swallows and licks his lips. "Morning," you give a luscious smile, your voice raspy from all the exertion your vocal cords endured last night. "Indeed," he gets up and crawls back on the bed, predatory gleam in his eyes. "No, no, do not even think about it," you are giving out a throaty laugh and attempt to move away from him. "I doubt I will be able to walk today, do not dare starting anything again!" He is grabbing your sides, trying to pull you closer, your giggles and shrieks only inciting him, all hot palms and greedy lips. You are wrestling in the sheets, neither of you trying to achieve anything, pure merriment bubbling, his guffaws and low growls echoing in the stone walls.

Few days later, you are decorously sharing breakfast in the Dining hall, which would be an epitome of regal conduct if not for salacious looks the King is giving you over the edge of his mug and your bare foot caressing and tickling his ankle under the table. After the meal is over, you catch your shoe under the table and are getting up to leave but the King gently captures your wrist and pulls you after him. "My Lord, surely we are not going back to your chambers, I am finding it difficult to even stand today," you are jesting, following him through narrow passages. "How sore are you this morning, my Lady?" he asks with a mock concern in his voice. "What endeavour does my Lord have in mind?" you quip, lifting a brow, "because I have to inform my Lord that possibly even for a few days I decisively wouldn't be able to ride a stallion or yield a sword," you pronounce your innuendos in a lecherous murmur. The King loses his footing and barks a laugh, masking it with a cough. "Neither will be required from you, my lady," he shakes his head on your dalliance and leads through the halls to the tallest part of Erebor. He stops in front of your chambers and opens the door inviting you with a gesture of his hand. You enter the familiar parlour chamber and find his weapons and armour arranged on the walls and tables. A large table covered with maps occupies a corner. Next is the adjoint dining chamber, where you often share late suppers preferring its seclusion to the grandeur of the Dining Halls. The King comes from behind you and ardently placing his hands on your shoulders he slightly pushes you towards the sleeping chamber. And there in the middle of the room you see the most exquisite bed you have ever laid your eyes on or could ever imagine.

It is colossal, larger in width than in length, massive bedposts supporting a canopy frame with heavy, dark green curtains. Each bedpost is decorated with most exquisite carving, imitating heavy branches of an oaktree with luscious leafage, legs reminiscent of the base of a trunk with knotted roots. On your shoulder level the posts cleave into smaller twisted branches, still thicker that your arm, strong and intricate, bursting with lush foliage. Each leaf is breathtakingly life-like, veins and rounded blades asking to be touched. Each is decorated with precious metals, seemingly glowing and moving in a gentle breeze, the whole majestic topiary alive and breathing in front of your eyes. "It was carved out of a single stump of an ancient oaktree", the King murmurs behind you, his palms still on your shoulders. You are silent, overwhelmed, feeling tears pooling in your eyes. "When did you commission it to be made?" your voice is trembling. "Last Spring," you sharply turn around and look into his eyes. "After that day in the woods..." He is smiling, guarded small smile, waiting for you to speak. You turn again and gingerly touch the branch closest to you. Then the gargantuan headboard catches your eyes. It consists of a panelled screen with intricate cut-through carving, the negative space forming an image of a giant oaktree. You come closer and caress the edges with your fingers. "Look at the corner, kurdu," his voice is almost inaudible, and you see, hidden in the labyrinthine clefts, a tiny shape of bird sitting on a branch. You lips are quivering, your breathing flutters, and you breath out, "A robin, umame zundush..." You whirl around and throw your arms around him, pressing your face into his neck, your whole body shaking, yearning for his succoring warmth. You feel him breath out and a croaked chuckle escapes him. "Do I conceive it that you are pleased, kurdu?" You let out a weak laugh and step back to look into his eyes. You are hoping that he sees all your love and gratitude in your eyes as, possibly for the first time in your life, you have no words. You caress his face with your hands and he presses his lips to your quivering mouth in a chaste adoring kiss. Your breaths mingling and your hands sliding on warm skin, your enlaced bodies speak to each others, tongues brushing, hearts whispering what words can only strive to express. For a moment you release his enticing mouth and whisper, "You are my life, Thorin Oakenshield, and my love to you is as strong and unwavering as the ancient oak trees of the world." He smiles into your shining eyes and leans into another reverent kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

When the snow melts in the fourth Spring you spend in Erebor, you decide that it is time to go back on the road. When the ice breaks on the River Running, you pack your backpack and set out firstly to Dale and later wherever the road takes you. Your farewell with the King is short and half-hearted. You are maintaining decorum by asking him to not hesitate to call upon you to come back if any need arises. He impassively assures you that he will. After bestowing a composed kiss on his lips you set out without looking back once. You do not know for how long he keeps his eyes on your back, if at all.

You spend the first week in Dale, enjoying the bursting life of the city, purchasing supplies, sampling food so different from the Dwarven nourishment. You purchase a new pair of boots, soft but reliable, expecting a long journey. You do not stay longer as you are constantly recognized, and women and children tend to whisper behind your back. You smile to younglings and offer help to females. You happily deliver a baby, give out lucky token with miniscule sparkles of your magic trapped inside, but make haste to commence your travelling. The innkeeper is nauseating polite to the "Uncrowned Queen of Erebor", your short stature, pale freckled skin and the copper curls standing out among the townfolk.

You are walking, comfortably wrapped in a Dwarven fur adorned, warmly lined cloak, which makes you look stockier that you are. With a tall walking stick in your hand, hood hiding your face and a backpack, covered underneath your cloak you could almost be mistaken for a Dwarf youngling. You set a comfortable pace, crispy Spring air delightful, stern beauty of the surrounding calming you. Measuring your breathing with your steps, you feel your thoughts and sentiment aligning, your distressed heart slowing down, your hurt pride pacified, tension and anguish leaving your body.

Four months later, the peak of Summer finds you in Bree, settled in a small house on the outskirts of the village, with an established group of patients and patrons, coming for your herbs and advice. Your eye-catching appearance is still noticed, but the inhabitants of the surrounding settlements seems to be accepting of it, having seen different folk travelling through. You are having jolly time making acquaintances with the locals and occasional travellers, chatting with women in the evening when the day's work is done, playing with children, feeling that the Lonely Mountain is so distant that your heart renounced from fluttering every time Durin's folk is mentioned. First few weeks of your travels before going to sleep, you would close down your eyes and even out your breathing, visualizing warm strings attaching your spirit to the King Under the Mountain, gently but resolutely extricating your essence from his, retreating within the confinement of the shell you were building around your pained heart. You conserved your love for him, wounded and anguished, but no less ardent, as a small ember, warm and weak, in the corner of your mind, safely locked and no longer stinging. From each city or village you would visit, you would send him a message, shortly informing of your location and the road you would take. You had sworn your allegiance to your King and would keep your loyalty, even if that was the only thing he required from you.

The last week before your departure from the Erebor had been the hardest. You mind was already set on leaving but the uncharacteristic indecisiveness would envelop you, and you would be lying in your shared bed, listening for your King's even breathing, intricate shadows from your bedposts and canopy adorning his sleeping face. You felt your blood rebelling against your intention, pulling you back, demanding his ardour, his embrace, his warmth, his fervor. But you could not give your body and soul what they required. Your King's love has ebbed, gradually your magic and your judgement becoming his only interest, his city and his gold engulfing his consideration.

That leads to you standing in front of his massive chair in your shared dining chambers. "Are you punishing me for something, kurdu?" the King is surveying you with bewildered and aggravating stare, his tone low and ominous. And if you have learnt anything after three and a half years of managing this particular Heir of Durin, it is that openly challenging him is the least wise path to take. It worked several times in the past, but you clearly see that the time for it is long gone. It is a strenuous task to remain reasonable though, uncontrollable frustration flaring in you after four weeks in friendly monotonous companionship, lovemaking rare, hasty and mediocre, libidinous dalliances of the past a long forgotten treat. You feel like yelling, "I'll show you punishment", throwing him on the heavy wooden table and ravishing him, extensively using your teeth and nails. You blink to shake off the mental image, choking it on the rising moon, and decorously smile, "Of course not, my Lord, I have nothing to accuse you of." "You draggy, gold obsessed, stuffy bore," you mentally add and politely smile again. "As you do not require my assistance currently, I thought a journey would be in order, to expand my magic skills and knowledge of herbs," you explain. The thought passes, "Are you really going to believe this, you stubborn blockhead?" The King is frowning but nods. "If that is your wish, kurdu," he sighs and rises. The conversation is over. Your heart clenches and you feel light-headed. "When are you leaving?" "With the new moon. Lovely time to start a journey," you turn around as if busy with some papers littering the table, painfully biting the lower lip. He hums absent-mindedly and leaves the room. You feel the metallic taste of blood and release you lip. The tears do not fall. You made your decision, and it is for the best for both of you.

It has been four days since the thought of Thorin, son of Thrain, crossed your mind, when the letter arrives. In ornamented monotonous platitudes you are asked to return to Erebor. You are not given a reason, the letter endlessly impersonal, his hand having touched it only to provide the signature. You first impulse is to reach for your backpack, but then you sit in your pristine kitchen, staring at the happy yellow heads of coneflowers in a cheery blue mug on your table. You think of the dark passages and cold halls of the Kingdom Under the Mountain, the secretive, stubborn nature of Dwarves, the emptiness of your bed in the months preceding your departure and the lighthearted life you are leading now. You think of the babes you have delivered, friends you have made and the serene hours before dawn you spend practising your magic in the peaceful buoyant comfort of your small home, your heart undisturbed and content. To be fair, you place the Dwarven women and children on the other side of the scale, the respect and appreciation for your judgement and magic you received in Erebor, the lives you saved on a battlefield and the lives you brought into the world in the dark bedchambers. You attempt to stop yourself but your thoughts jump to the proud King Under the Mountain. "Do not lie to yourself, woman, you are yearning for him. Even a disregarding, cold, dismissive Thorin is better that the icy emptiness in your chest," your heart is whispering treacherously and you brace yourself. "He does not desire me anymore, not the way I need him, and I have to care for myself. If I come back I'll only be miserable and won't be able to stop from turning his life into a torture," you retort through clenched teeth. "He does need you, he asked you to return." "An official letter does not exactly scream devastated heart," you snarl. "What did you want? Him appearing at your house, humble and thinned, wasting away from the loneliness?" Apparently, venomous sarcasm is ingrained in all voices in your head. "Yes," you cry out and stop in your tracks. You close your eyes and a mirthless smile adorns your face. That is it, you realize, all these months you have been lying to yourself. This whole time you've been waiting for him to learn his lesson, to comprehend how his life is empty without you, and to crawl back, begging at your feet. The mental image, though not without certain allure, makes you laugh bleakly. "Then you should have chosen a meek sluggish town lad from Archet, not a proud Heir of Durin," you heart chimes in. "Shut up, pompous blood pumping muscle!" you push your chair from the table and rush outside. After several hours of wandering, impulsively kicking flowerheads, apologising to flowerheads, pathetic crying on an edge of a merry brook, furious yelling in a grove and finally exhausted dragging your bum back home, you fall into your house only to find a couple of confused patients waiting in your tiny sitting room. "Your door has not been closed, kind lady," they are inspecting your bedraggled appearance with doubt. You smile and greet them with regal dignity, your back straight, the skill of majestic awe-striking well trained during the years of your uncrowned queenhood.

You spend five restless days and nights biting the skin around your nails, condoning the nasty habit, and rewriting your answer in your head. It takes two hours in the evening to ink down your response letter. In polite impeccable styling you inquire if any trouble has befallen your King or his realm and in what capacity you are required to come back. You delicately explain that you have not completed your quest for a deeper understanding of your magic, which mumbling under your nose you call a giant pile of… withered flowers. Additionally, you kindly ask for more time allowed for your travels, if possible. You seal the letter, send it away and spend a sleepless night alternating between praising yourself and banging your head into the headboard of your narrow lonely bed.

Morning comes, sunrays dance on your freckled nose, and you open your dreary eyes. In a chair near the opposite wall you see a sardonically smirking King Under the Mountain. You blink and touch your forehead, looking for a bruise caused by yesterday's extensive banging. You obviously have a concussion and are hallucinating. "So, that is what you exchanged your life in Erebor for?" he gestures around your chaste bedroom. You shiver, since you somehow managed to forget the sinfulness of his low velvet voice. You sit up and rub your eyes. The apparition of Thorin, son of Thrain is patiently waiting for your response, its brow sarcastically hiked up. "What are you doing here?" you croak, pulling your covers over your breasts clad in a regrettably plain undertunic, immediately chastising yourself for vanity. Firstly, this is just your delusion and not the actual King, secondly, your looks are of no importance at the moment. At the same time, half of your mind is on the state of your hair, and that half is very very sad. You are surely displaying the exact likeness to a flowerbed of orange Azalea. "I came to inquire why my letter has not been answered for so long, and why my Queen has not returned under my roof." "I sent the answer last night" you squeak pulling the covers higher. "What took you so long to answer it?" "Five days?" "I sent it two months ago!" he raises his voice, a well schooled expression momentarily wavering. "I only got it five days ago!" you raise your voice in return. He blinks and for a second probably feels like an idiot. "Good," the vengeful side of your mind rejoices at the back of your head. He recovers regrettably quickly. "The letter had the date on it," he points sarcastically, tilting his head on one side. "I haven't noticed," mentally you resume vigorous head banging. "And what did your responding letter read, my lady?" he inquires further. You swallow under the heavy gaze of the motionless Dwarf, his arms folded but not crossed on his chest in a familiar gesture. An unmoving Thorin is an intimidating Thorin. And right now it feels like the whole world around him is frozen, no summer breeze, no buzzing bees, even the curtains on the open window probably halted and shrank in mortification. His intense focus on you is pinning you down, meddles your thoughts, and for a moment you are hoping it is after all a hallucination. You straighten your back and decorously repeat the empty banalities from your letter. His face is completely expressionless through your pathetic mumbling. You finish weakly with something in the manner of "If my King requires my service, I will start packing," he cocks his brow, "at my first convenience," you add petulantly. He holds the pause and, although you admire his impeccable sense of timing, you are getting angry. "Have I offended you in any way?" his voice is low and even. "What? No! When?" squawking is really unbecoming of a Queen. He gets up and starts slowly pacing in front of you, five steps one way and back, from wall to wall. "The city was being restored, the trade was flourishing. We had just reached a new favourable agreement with Dale, to a great extent owing to your facilitation, your tact and canniness. People respected you, for a longest time we hardly even disagreed on anything…" "You didn't bed me for weeks!" Great, at least when your heart was talking, it premeditated its responses. Other parts apparently just blurt out the first thing. Good job, nether regions! The King is frozen mid step, his mouth open in complete disbelief. Well, in for an inch… "My leaving has nothing to do with the city's prosperity, trade, or treaties. It has nothing to do with your gold, Thorin," your temper is awakening and you are welcoming the storm, "it has to do with the fact that I became another one of your counsellors and not your wife!" You yell out and then shrink back from the sudden understanding of what you said. The King's jaws are clenched, his nostrils flaring and for the first time you are actually scared of him. "You are not my wife!" he snarls through his teeth, each word separate from others, and you flinch as if he hit you. "You made it abundantly clear that you do not wish to tie yourself to me. Forgive me for trying to learn to live without you!" You halt, momentarily wanting to rush to reassure him, but then another infuriating thought makes you fist your hands. "So you were punishing me?! Withdrawing from me, ignoring me, leaving me alone for days?" "I did not realize I was doing it, not until you left," he sounds suddenly tired and sinks back into the chair. "I was unfair but in my defense it was unintentional. I was just lessening my dependence on your presence, for when I do not have it." "Mahal, you are inconceivable!" you shake off the covers and jump out of bed ignoring that you are only wearing a sheer undertunic that is reaching no lower than mid thigh. Now it is your turn to pace in front of him, gesticulating animatedly. "How many time are we to have the same conversation? I have pledged myself to you, my mind and my magic are yours. I am not going to leave you!" "And nonetheless you did!" "Because you did not want me anymore!" You are yelling at each other. He jumps at his feet and stares in your eyes. "I can't sleep! I haven't slept a single proper night for four months! Food tastes repulsive! People are scared of me, servants actually hide in passages from me! You cannot do that to me, woman!" He is panting. His face is close, and you see darkness underneath his eyes. You step back and regally sit back on your bed. A still lingering vengeful voice in your head whispers that if you wanted, that is the moment when you could actually make him kneel. He looks positively broken. But to hurt him is to hurt yourself, his heart is your heart, and you say softly, "I will come back to Erebor with you." "Good," he deadpans and exhaling sharply he sags in the chair, "I will endeavour to be more attentive to you in the future if you promise to never leave me again." "I have promised that many times before, nothing changed, Thorin." He rubs his face with his large palm and nods, "All right. Just come back home with me." "Thorin," you tread carefully and softly, "I am afraid we will have the same disputes again and again if we do not reach some sort of agreement. I am not a Dwarf and never will be. You people will not accept me as their Queen and I am asking you to give up the idea of marriage. I do not wish to let it cloud our relationship any more." He presses his lips together and defeated he nods again. "Unless you are not being honest with me," you say quietly and he jerks his head up. "In what?" "That you believe my motive to refuse you. I have promised all my remaining years to you, and nothing will change it. It is not from the lack of fervour and devotion to you," you are supporting your point by pressing your palms over your heart. "I just cannot tie you to me, make you break the customs of your people and give up your freedom, your ohufuk for me." And that exact moment you realize why your Mother used to say that less is always better. Damn your tongue and desire to convince him! He lifts his eyes at you, after tiredly looking down during your speech, and you see that they are blazing, pupils dilating, and you gulp. "My freedom?" his voice is almost inaudible from the fury burning in him. "As in freedom to marry someone else?" His lips slightly open, his breathing laboured, and you see he is clenching his fists, struggling for self control. He is slowly standing up, towering above you, leaning in and you scoot back in the bed, cowering away from him. He grabs your shoulders and yanks you towards him. "I am a Dwarf, you nonsensical creature," he is baring his teeth in a terrifying snarl. "We love for life. You think I will bed you, share my life with you, and then find a convenient Dwarven maiden, preferably from a noble family, and hope she will desire me as her husband, will agree to be my Queen and bear my heirs?" "Yes!" you are yelling into his face, everything be damned, the pain you've been carrying in your heart since the day you realized it belongs to the Dwarf prince bursting out in a violent scream and tears rush out, at length suppressed through sleepless nights, disapproval of the court, weddings you attended together, and the births of Dwarven younglings you have assisted. He presses you into his body, hot murmurs mixed with curses in Khuzdul pouring out of him. "Moronic, idiotic woman… Brainless creature… What are you thinking? You are my heart, my love, my life… You deranged yasith of an idiot King… You'll be the amrad of me…" He is pressing fierce kisses to your wet face and you claw at his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer, sobs shattering through you, agonizing pain jolting your body, his beloved hands grabbing you, both of you crying and shaking. He is kneeling on the bed in front of you and once your hysteria subsides he is lowering both of you on the narrow bed. There is not enough room and you slide almost on top of him, pressing your feverish face into his neck. For a while it is just a sound of chirping birds outside and your coupled breathing in the room.

The world around you is still, his heart beating under your palm, and then you feel him taking a deep breath. "This bed is hardly made for two," he sounds rather pleased. You puff in disbelief and slightly slap his chest. You hear a quiet pretended yelp and he presses his hand over yours. "Do not dare criticizing my home," you screw your eyes to look at the ceiling. You have painted foliage of an oak tree on it. He follows your eyes with his and smiles softly. "Your home is in Erebor," you mockingly kick him and he traps your leg under his, "but I cannot deny the enticement of a simple life in Bree. I have frequented it myself in my youth." He rubs your knuckles under his palm. "I have a friend living further to the East, you should meet him. Jolly fellow, you will love him. Will cook you dinner, and supper afterwards, that would feed you for five days," he chuckles. "May be we should visit him before we go back to Erebor." A thought occurs to you, "Are you travelling alone, my Lord?" "I took Dwalin with me, he is in the inn. I cannot travel alone, I am a King, you know," he is jesting and you feel warmth filling the void in your chest you have been carrying around for the last four months. "Are you now?" You perch your head on a fist on his chest, not letting go of his other hand. A gleeful chuckles reverberates through him, but then his face grows serious and he sits up, pulling you up, and you are sitting on your narrow bed, facing each other. He is staring into your eyes resolutely and you suddenly are scared of what he is to say. "Kurdu, we have to reach the agreement you have mentioned earlier," his voice is enticing and persuasive. "Regarding marriage?" you are avoiding his eyes. "Yes," he turns your face towards him with one finger under your chin. "And for that you have to start trusting me…" "I have to?…" you exclaim but he silences gently pressing his thumb over your lips. "I am not done, azyungel." You frown at him but remain silent. "Yes, you have to listen and hear what I say. I have chosen you as my life mate and that will never change. Nothing can change it, neither my people, nor your race, and not even if so it happens that you cannot bear my sons," you want to look aside but he does not let you. "You are my yasith, my wife, and not because I bedded you, though apparently poorly," mirth is dancing in his blue eyes, you bite your bottom lip in attempt to suppress a smile, "and not because that was a way to ensure that your skills and magic serve me. You are my wife by the will of my heart and my mind. If you have me," he finishes softly. "Then why wedding, Thorin?" He lets out an exasperated sigh. "I want my people to accept that you are their Queen, and that you are mine. Did you know that it is Dwarven maidens who choose their husbands and not the opposite? I feel rather depreciated as a potential husband. You wouldn't want other Dwarves to think that I am less than worthy as a possible spouse," he is making a compelling case with his soft murmurs, tender looks from under his thick full lashes, and his fingers affectionately stroking your jaw. You shake off the spell he casts on you and move slightly away. The warmth radiating from his body is not helping your resolve, meddling with your thoughts, making it increasingly difficult to deny him. "The wedding would not change anything! And wives leave their husbands too!" you present your last, pathetic counterargument. He gives you a coy smile. "Not Dwarven wives. We marry for life," he pulls you to his arms, and you realize that if you allow him one kiss, you are lost. You press your palms into his chest but he is leaning in, his mesmerizing blue eyes shining, Mahal help you, the fresh smell of his skin filling your nose, your body demanding its compensation for four months of loveless nights. "Oh alright, you win," you cry out and a triumphant smile lights up his face. "Help me Mahal and all Maiar put together," you mumble and he presses his lips onto your mouth in the most beautiful kiss, your heart and other parts finally in accord, expressing their ardent approval, your blood singing, tingles running through every inch of your skin. He is caressing your upper lip and you are losing ability to think, your ears are ringing, it feels as if air fills your lungs for the first time in months when it is mixed with his sweet breath. All you can feel is the divine lips of your King, the scratching of his delectable beard and his calloused hands placed on the sides of your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, warm fingers on your neck under your ears. You sigh into the kiss and let go, embracing him in return, yielding to him and your destiny.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: A companion piece to previous chapter. There was supposed to be a chapter per spring but I just couldn't let it go. Have fun!

Translations:

zagar = sword

azaghinh = lady-warrior

Your body is on fire. Whatever you have heard of the Dragon flame, right now you think that the Great Serpents of the North have nothing on the firestorm raging under every inch of your skin. You are tingling head to toe, your head is spinning, and, Mahal help you, the only thing that prevents you from collapsing is the pair of strong arms of none other than the King Under the Mountain. The problem is that he concurrently is the source of your fever. His lips are hot and ravenous, he is placing greedy open-mouthed kisses on the pulsating vein on your neck, crushing you to his chest, one of his scorching palms sliding down, leaving a fiery trail down your spine. Your mind is whirling but somewhere in the clouds of desire and euphoric frenzy an icy shard of reason is prickling you. It is too much, too fast, and you are keeling over. One of his palms cups your buttock, and you tear your lips from him. You recognise that you have but a second before the lust overwhelms you and, consequences be damned, you will push this Dwarf down on your narrow bed and ravish him like you saw in your licentious dreams for months and months. "Thorin," you realize you need to try harder. Instead of hindering him with a strict warning, you breathed out his name in an endlessly sensual way, your breasts heaving and your voice throaty. "Kurdu," he is rumbling into your unexpectedly naked shoulder, doubling his efforts, "I have been burning for you too." You moan, and then halt. A shoulder? You hastily scoot back, battering his hands away, pulling the suddenly open collar of your tunic up, shortly wondering when exactly the delicate strings holding the two halves over your breasts came undone. Untangling them in the morning has been quite a strenuous task and you were in a sane mind and no hurry, but admittedly the fingers of Dwarves are surprising deft. He emits an feral growl and grabs your waist, pulling you back to the edge of the bed he is kneeling on. "Thorin," this time you pull through, and he weakens his grip. "We should stop," you are panting and, looking into his blazing blue eyes that are screaming all the obscene salacious things he is yearning to do to you, you almost change you mind. "Thorin, I can't, I am still too sore." He lets go of you and straightens up. "Have you been injured, my heart?" his voice is laced with sincere concern, but then you see a different thought flashing on his face. His face darkens, and you roll your eyes at the possessiveness of Dwarves. "My feelings, you jealous brute! Does this house tell you I have been accepting visitors in my sleeping chambers?" You gesture around your chaste tiny bedroom. He has the nerve to actually look around with inspecting eye. You smack his shoulder. "I am certain not due to the lack of suitors," he grumbles and screws his eyes at the crumpled sheets again. "Thorin Oakenshield, look me in the eyes right now and tell me that you actually dare doubt my faithfulness," your tone is threatening, and he blinks and returns his eyes on your face, though not without difficulty. He uncomfortably shifts his weights and mutters, "You are an alluring woman." The nerve! "Yes, I am, but am I wanton?" He backtracks and gently takes your hands, "Forgive my jealousy, kurdu," he kisses you knuckles. "The months without you made me a fool." You nod and continue, "You are my heart, Thorin, and I endeavour to share and accept your vexations, but I am not to allow you question my loyalty." "I do not," he hotly interrupts. He kisses you hands again, and then again, this time his lips linger a bit longer. You need to hurry. "My Lord, my heart is still aching from our separation and from the vehemence of the last hours," you pull your hands away. "Allow me some time to accustom to you anew." You put a hand on his chest, caressing but simultaneously keeping him at arm's length. He signs and caves in.

He steps off the bed and stretches out his hand to help you up. "How much time do you need to prepare for our return to Erebor?" You are suddenly flooded with dread, so much to be done. "A few days at least, there are books to pack, people to say goodbye to, I have to hand over my patients, someone will have to water my herbs, oh Maiar, the cellar, the mead is brewing..." you are feeling faint. He places a calming hand on your shoulder. "Take a breath, zundush, one task at a time," he chuckles and pulls you into warm embrace. "I have missed your oddity." "I am not odd," you retort but revel in his attention. "The first thing you think of is packing books and watering herbs." "They are important," he is laughing and, extricating yourself from his arms, you rush to a large trunk near a wall and start rummaging through, looking for a dress. Suddenly his laughter stops and you turn your head wondering what has occurred. Clearly bending in a short undertunic and no undergarments was a rather foolish idea. The King is actually blanched and breathes heavily. You grab an odd dress from the top of the pile and hastily retreat in the next room.

To your complete disbelief, it takes you only till the early evening to tend to all your matters. You spend the day running around the village, a whirlpool of conversations, negotiations and a fair amount of pleading, as well as tearsome goodbying and dodging questions, all blending into a dizzying emotional flurry. You have left a pouting King in the house, having promised to return before dinner. The patients entrusted, the rent paid and the key from the house returned, you are rushing back, a heavy basket of groceries pulling at your arm. The sun is still shining high in the sky, and you are futilely tell yourself there is no need to haste, but your feet are flying through the streets, you are jumping over cobblestone, startling respectable townsfolk, you copper curls swishing when you are sprinting around corners. The house is empty. You are standing in the middle of your sitting room, dumbfounded, and for a second you question your sanity. Have you actually spent this morning reconciling with your King or you have indeed hurt your head and that was just a desperate fantasy? At that moment you see his leather gauntlets left on the table and feel like a muttonhead. You laugh at your own childish scare and with a sudden realization you leave through the back door.

You follow a narrow trail, twisting and turning between small green hills, down to a brook with a stone bridge over it. A small grove in the bend of the stream is full of cheery birds bobbing and chirping on the lush green branches, and a carpet of bright flowers is dancing in the gentle summer breeze. Thorin is sitting on his cloak stretched on the ground, an unlit pipe forgotten in his hand. His eyes are closed, warm sunlight caressing his face. A small smile is hiding in the corners of his lips, and you think that you have never seen him more beautiful. You halt a few steps away from him, your heart beating wildly and a strange shyness coming over you. "I can see why you chose to stay here," his low voice makes you shiver, "I forgot how peaceful such simple, unengaged life can be." He slowly opens his blue eyes and, you smile at him. He stretches his hand inviting you to join him. You put the basket down and start sitting down when he suddenly pulls at your hand and you end up on his lap. You puff out and look into his eyes gleaming with mirth. "You take quite liberties for a first shared dinner, my Lord," you are flirting shamelessly and know that. He pushes you hair back from your neck and kisses the frantically beating pulse there. "I am a Dwarf, we are a driven folk." "Indeed," he is now leaning to your lips, keeping your eyes locked. You swallow and croak, "Basket." He hums noncommittally and cups your face with his left palm. His lush lashes that you are so enamored with are now fluttering, he is closing his eyes leaning in even more, and you jump up and rush to the basket. "Food, I brought food," you are gesturing way too excessively, and he chuckles understandingly. You bring the basket closer and, just to prove that you are not at least affected by his seduction, you return on his nap. You might also be vengefully taking too long to settle, shifting your hips and bouncing your bum with vindictive precision. You cannot be sure but you think you hear him groan. You ask yourself why you even imposed the postponement. You feel light, safe, careless, seeing him after so long seems natural, all your reserve and bashfulness melting away. And, your lustful urges awakening, you take a pork-pie wrapped in pristine crispy paper from the basket and, having unwrapped it on your knee, you pick up a thin slice and move it to his lips. He bites into it, holding your gaze, white teeth sinking in the succulent filling. He chews slowly, leaning for more bites, and when there is only a small bit left he catches the tip of your index finger with the remaining crust between his lips. You feel his tongue flicker on your flesh, and then smirking smugly he resumes chewing. As two can play this game, you place the same finger in your mouth and suck. He chokes and his hand resting on your waist clenches. You put the pie back in the basket and ask innocently, "Breast or leg, my Lord?". His brows fly up and lips open slightly. He licks them and rasps out, "Pardon?" "The chicken," you wave a piece in front of his long nose. "Which part would you like, my King?" He comically follows the piece with his eyes as if still not quite comprehending. "This one is fine". "I should have known you would go after a leg, my Lord," you are sniggering at his perplexed sideways stare. When your jesting sinks in, he grasps the chicken out of your hand and, throwing it back into the basket, he pushes you on the ground and presses you down with his delectable weight. He strokes your leg in one long movement from the calf all the way up under your skirt, pushes his hand under your buttock and gives it a squeeze. "I enjoy all parts equally," he growls deliciously and bites you shoulder. "And you have to stop teasing me, woman, self-restraint has never been among my virtues." His glorious warm body is surrounding you, heavy and trembling from the strain he is putting on himself. You are silent, and he sits up sharply, blindly adjusting your skirt. Then he sticks his nose in the basket and pulls out the chicken leg.

You are all of a sudden tired of games and say, "Ask me again." He turns sharply, and you smile into his eyes. "Ask me again." He drops the ill-starred chicken leg and frowns. "Do not tantalize me, azyungel," he is both hopeful and irritated, probably thinking you are using lovemaking as a dangling carrot. "Ask me again to marry you, you inconceivable Dwarf!" He is still frowning but leans closer. "What are you playing at, zundush?" You wrap your arms around his neck. "I want to do it properly. You will ask me properly, I will graciously accept, and then we will celebrate," you lick your lips and he cocks his brow. "And if I do not, will you continue retaining my merited rights as your guchir?" You ignore the "master" appellation and laugh, "Of course not. Lovemaking is not a bargaining chip, Thorin", you sound a bit reproachful. "Besides, I do not wish to feel like I am twisting your arm to force you into this marriage." "I think I made more arm twisting, figuratively speaking," he is still cautious, Dwarven pride and loathing for any coercion battling in him with desire to please. You are stroking the nape of his neck and his breathing quickens. "Forgive me, kurdu, I recognize that I am being childish and nonsensical but I want to have a beautiful memory of this place," you gesture around, "and you, asking me to be your yasith, and me, accepting you," you smile a shy smile, but he is silent, his face unreadable. You feel even sillier now, cursing your suddenly awakened sentimental, bathetic side. He slides his hand under his vest and pulls out a small cloth parcel. He puts it on your lap and gently opens it. The breath-taking gems of Nyrnala, the Jewel of Khazad-dum are glistening in the setting sun, contesting its light. "Filegethiel, Gindabad of my life, will you accept this token of my devotion and do me the honour of being my wife and my Queen?", his voice is reverent, eyes unguarded, the line of his lips yielding and tender. "Yes, Thorin," you sob and you are not sure if you are crying or laughing, "I choose you as my husband and the Fire of my life." You press yourself into him, grabbing his neck tightly, and he is clinging to you no less desperately. You burst out laughing, "Are you carrying the invaluable jewels of your people with you at all times?" There are still tears in your eyes but you are bubbling with giddy elation. He shifts his eyes, "Not at all times. But I felt it might come opportune in this travel." You shake your head and press your lips to his. He dives in but then halts to clasp the ponderous jewel around your neck. The cold opulent weight lies on your jugular notch. You touch it with the tips of your fingers. "It is so heavy." "Feeling trapped already?" he is jesting, nuzzling your neck, but there is the underlying misgiving in his voice. "I feel happy," you assert and cupping his face you lead his mouth to yours.

He reciprocates enthusiastically, heating up instantaneously, his hands soon roaming you backside and bunching your skirt. Although you are remorseful to put him through it again, you twist your face away from him and warn him, "Thorin..." "Mahal and the Seven Fathers! What is it now?" "We can't." His temper flares up, but he arduously suppresses it and tries the more temperate approach, "I recall you mentioning a celebration." He is purring in your ear in the most enticing manner, his breath and lips brushing your lobe that immediately starts burning. You sag but hold on to the remaining sanity, "I mean we should probably return to the house. This is a frequented trail." He is currently sucking on your throat and the world around you sways. You realize you are tilting your head to accommodate him. Not quite the behaviour to support your point. "Too far," he mumbles and trails your jugular with a hot lick. You emit a gurgling noise and clench your fingers onto his garment. "Please," you are not sure what you are asking for. He lurches up and gets up on his feet impressively bouncing you in his arms. Dwarves are indeed quick thinkers but you are not certain that the grove where he is heading is going to sufficiently conceal you. Regrettably you do not care.

With one hand he shreds his outergarments, shifting your weight from one arm to another, throws them on the ground into the grasses and flowers and carefully lowers you on them. His lips are ubiquitous, kisses singeing your face, neck, clavicles peeking in the collar of your dress. He is moving lower, biting through the common material of your dress, his breath scorching your ribs and stomach, his hands bunching up your skirt. His hot palms are swift, your undergarments are thrown to the grass in a jiffy. You arch your back and moan. His palm suddenly cups between your legs and you cry out. He dips a finger into you, and you thrash. He slips it in and out several times, the obscene sound of your wet folds receiving him is outrageously loud. You are sure your moisture is dripping down his palm. You hear a clank of his buckle and sober up a bit. You push him away and sit up. He is shaking but restrains himself, waiting for your guidance. "Clothes," you hiss out, "off." He grins and pulls on his shirt. You wriggle out of your dress, and he is grabbing the bottom of your undertunic. "Finally! Away with the detestable thing," he growls and pulls it off. "It has been torturing me for ages." "It is only been since morning," you are being smarty but he pounces at you and locks his lips around your breast. You gasp and wrap your legs around him. He is sucking and biting, and you push his breeches down with your feet. He is positively purring. "Oh, your nimble little toes," he is grabbing your right foot in his hot hand and hikes your leg higher, kissing the calf. He pauses for a second and looks into your eyes. You nod, and he pushes into you with a groan, making you scream and claw at his shoulders. Surely you are drawing blood. After months of abstinence your walls are stretching painfully, but you pushing down at his pelvis with your legs, spurring him. When he is fully in you, he halts, his breathing laborious, eyes closed. "Kurdu?" you are stroking the side of his face. The blue eyes fly open and you see tears pooling in his eyes. He fiercely presses his mouth on yours and thrusts for the first time. He is large and hot, filling you up, spreading your legs wider, and the world is finally whole again. He is moving above you, in you, with you, both of you shifting, his garments under your back sliding on the grass. "Kurdu, I will not last long," he is snarling through his teeth, but you do not hear him, the first wave of your release flooding you, mashing you, your body convulsing, his name an unending prayer on you lips. He thrusts into you several more time and cries out in his own release. Still supporting his weight on his elbows, he drops his head, his face pressed in your neck, hot wet breath on your skin. You caress the broad shoulders and down the nape to the shoulder blades, your hands speaking in place of your mouth that is pressed to a throbbing pulse near his ear, assuring that you are here, and you are his, and that his heart and all his being is safe with you. The moment is perfect, his warm familiar skin and weight of his sated body, and the fulfilment that you have craved for so long.

The world yet again becomes clear and you realize you are staring into the blue sky, sprawled on the grass, you naked bum at least on the long velvet vest of your King. He is still panting and, chuckling, he rolls off of you and blindly pulls you to his chest. You slide closer and curl into him, covering you both with motley items of clothing. "I think I heard some noise," you are nuzzling the warm muscles of his chest, rubbing his leg with your foot, enjoying the roughness of the coarse hair. "Probably a bird," he is satiated and placid, tracing meaningless swirls on your naked shoulder. "Or a neighbour," you quip. "Aren't you an experienced scout, my Lord?" He gives you a side glance. "Just now I probably would not have noticed a fire breathing dragon in the sky."

After a few moments of satisfied silence you push yourself up and straddle him. The clothes covering you slide down and his eye immediately fasten on your breasts. You are caressing his chest, treading your hands through the thick black hair, tracing the white scars with the tips of your finger. One of them, the jagged mark between his seventh and eighth ribs, always frightens you, cold touch of irrational fear brushing your nape every time you see the relic of the battle of Five Armies. His large palms are on your hips, thumbs gently rubbing your skin. "I have missed it so", you are now sliding your palms to his abdomen, hard muscles under the pulps of your fingers. "It?" his eyes follow the tendons of your neck and return to the soft roundness of your breasts. "You, us, our lovemaking," you lean down and catch his throat with your lips. He strokes your shoulder blades, throwing his head back. You stretch on him, biting his jaw, his beard deliciously scratching your tongue, then you lick his neck, skin salty from previous exertion, your nails meanwhile grazing his forearms. You start sliding down, licking intricate swirls on the sinews of his strong neck, down the clavicles, around his hardening nipples, smirking when he jerks from your tongue tickling his ribs. "Tell me what else you missed," he murmurs, his cock hardening between your bodies. "Your hands. Oh, I missed your hands on my skin, they are always so hot, so greedy." You are stroking his abdomen with your hands and speak between the kisses, "Your coarse hair scratching me, it makes me shiver. I clench from your roughness," you smirk as he groans, lewd talking a new ploy for you. And Maiar, aren't you having fun! "I missed how you press me into sheets, your hips pumping into me," he trains his hand into your hair. You bite his hipbone and his cock jerks, heat radiating from it. You press your cheek to it and hum from pleasure. "Oh Mahal," he breathes out, picks you up under your arms and pulls you up. "My Lord?" You usual respectful moniker sounds positively obscene as you point at his raging erection with your eyes. He sits up and places you on his lap, straddling him. "Not your mouth. I want you to keep talking while I am bedding you", his cups your buttocks and lifts you up. You smile salaciously into his eyes, press your hands into his shoulders, and then he lowers you on his shaft. You cry out and toss your head back. "Look at me, kurdu, keep your eyes on me," you force yourself to look into his burning cerulean eyes. He shift his legs and you are sitting facing each other, his legs crossed. "Keep talking," his voice is commanding, and he starts moving, "You have a talented tongue, my Queen." His smirk is lecherous. You puff and rake his chest with your nails. He moans. Kinky Dwarf! "I missed how strong you are, as if made of stone," you both are rocking, meeting in the middle, his massive palm cupping your bum, another one almost covering both your shoulder blades. "I like feeling small in your hands, delicate." His fingers trail your spine, and you moan clenching around him. "Like a small bird", he murmurs and buries the hand in your curls. They escaped the braid and now are bouncing around your shoulders. "I missed your zagar", you offer with a smirk. He lift his brow, "Orcrist?" You push harder, wieald your inner muscles, and he loses the smirk. "Every night, in that cursed narrow bed, cold, empty," you puncture each remark with a thrust, a clasp of your walls and a sting of your nails on his shoulder. He is growling, his pelvis jerking up into you, his delicious cock stroking the exactly right spot. "I have missed you but I had good memories to release the tension," you stare into his eyes and he catches your lips in a bruising kiss. "I have thought of you too," he is mumbling into your neck, biting your neck in between words, "sometimes three or four times before sleep," his movements become jerky and uneven. You grab his hair and pull it back. "Do not dare," you also can be commanding and assertive. He lopsidedly smirks and slows down. He tilts your torso back, supporting your back, and slips another hand between you. With a familiar precision he finds your clit and gently but firmly rubs it. You toss your head back and breath out, "There..." He smiles and murmurs, "Azaghinh… A true azaghinh…". He picks up the speed and matching the rhythm of his fingers and hips he brings you both over the edge, your releases coming in unison, hot and perfect, your cries mixing in the cooling evening air, bodies intertwined, fire subsiding into slow gentle murmurs, sensual kisses and caresses of tender hands.

You are nodding off in the warm circle of his arms. "Zundush", you jerk and look at him in confusion. "We need to return to your house. It is dark." You yawn, always the sleepy one after lovemaking. He is smiling at you, relaxed and affectionate, his brow smooth and mouth soft. "I do not have to," you are fighting another yawn, "we can go back to the inn. Just have to take my books, clothes and various trifles. I have settled all my matters, even returned the key." He nods, "Quite all right. Take care of your books. But not the clothes," he wrinkles his nose, "my Queen is not to wear this common attire." He gives a disdainful look to your simple dress, crumpled in the grass. You scoff, "Am I to go naked, my Lord? I have to greet Dwalin after all." "Just one then, different one." You lift your brow and give him the look. Someone's head is way too big as is the custom. "Am I being too conceited again?" he is reading the signals. Years should have taught him the futility of attempts to hold reigns in this liaison, but that does not stop the stubborn Heir of Durin from trying occasionally. "Yes, and meddling in what is none of your concern, but I'll choke it on too much blood having swollen to your head, my Lord." He guffaws, "I assure you, zundush, the blood was nowhere near my head." The Dwarven possessiveness still persists. "Your maid packed a trunk of your belongings that we brought with us. There are travel clothes in it, worthy of your stature." You breath out a mocking puff, "You are just trying to bundle me in endless layers of Dwarven clothes, masculine no less, so you can hide me from other travellers' eyes. As if I do not know that your folk has been doing that for ages with their wives and sisters." He pulls you closer and nuzzles your neck. He is humming low in his chest, precisely knowing the power of a cuddly Thorin. "Oh, alright, I'll indulge you this time only." "You are too kind to me, my heart." "I know."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Since I was asked several times about my "weird" assumptions regarding pregnancy with a half-Dwarven baby (not something you expect yourself saying, huh?:) I'll refer you to a site. The same information was actually discussed at two more forums and sites I saw but this one makes most sense. I think mostly people base their theories on the 250 year life expectancy of Dwarves. **

**dwarrowscholar. mymiddleearth dot com /2012/04/27/ about-dwarven-women-and-children. **

**Mind the spaces and "dot com", they are put in so that FF doesn't kill the link.**

**P.S. The 16 months pregnancy I came up with (and the loopy bunny explanation in "Thorin's Return to Shire") are complete rubbish. The only excuse I have is that I did it for the plot purposes and understand the complete absurdness of my logic. Just ignore it and do not think less of me for that. I just needed **_**some **_**timeline! :)**

**A/N#2: This chapter has to do with childbirth. It's not graphic but if the topic irks you, skip it. I myself had an easy and gleeful experience so I decided that Wren deserves one as well :) At least the first time around. So this chapter is all fluffy fluff and more fluff :) Let me know what you think but be gentle with me :)**

Your seventh Spring in Erebor comes with a heat wave and a constant mixture of irritation and nervous excitement. By the middle of May only the bravest dare to address you, which leaves the King Under the Mountain and Balin as your only conversation companions. You spend your days in perpetual trepidation and frenzied energy thrashing in you. If you are right in your prediction, the heir to the throne of Durin is to appear in the end of this month, and all signs confirm your suspicions. Your merry, round belly sits very low now, the vigorous kicks that kept you awake and made you yelp at the very wrong moments subsided, and the overall feeling of anticipation is flooding you.

Through the incomplete sixteen months of your pregnancy you have retained the regal decorum and purely wondrous composure. You had cravings for food and even more so for the attention of the King, but they were limited to reasonable demands. Except a few rather risky dealings with the half undressed King in not so concealed corners of Erebor, you remained proper, easygoing and unflappable. You survived your month long June wedding, visit to Greenwood the Great and introduction to the Elvenking Thranduil, a long and complicated interaction with the Isari Counsel, and your own increasing resemblance to a trebuchet cannonball. Although your son is very large, you still carry your body lightly. The only weight that was added to your body is the round dense sphere containing your babe. From your back it is hardly possible to say that you are expecting the next in the line of Durin.

You have been cheery and optimistic, reassuring the King in his moments of nervousness and even panic, supporting him through his anxiety, his insecurities as a future father, that he shamefully and quietly shared with you in the darkness and seclusion of your bedchambers. You oversaw the preparations of a nursery, chose linens, moved a long time familiar midwife from Dale in a room in an adjoin wing of the Erebor Halls. You have prepared, and now all you can do is wait.

And it is killing you! Since your child is a wonder of no precedent nature, nothing in your parturiency is predictable and easy to interpret. Sometimes you feel as if he will never come. You will remain round and clumsy forever! At those moments Thorin's male equanimity comes handy, and under his gentle strokes and quiet murmurs you calm down and go about your day with a regained sobriety and serenity. Until after another hour you once again feel like screaming and breaking dishes. Servant wisely choose different passages. You never work your frustration off on living beings since you consider it beneath an intelligent person, but the shards from the plates that you attack tend to be propelled at rather large distances.

Thror arrives precisely like predicted on the last day of May. Though all predictions in this pregnancy were nothing but speculations and musings, he arrives at night on the day you named almost at random. Soon after midnight you sit up in your bed certain of what is coming. You shake the King's shoulder, "Thorin! It is time!" "For what?" An absolutely sober voice of the King does not deceive you, through years you realized that him speaking and seemingly answering questions does not indicate him being awake. "For the baby." "Which baby?" And then he flails his arms and jolts his whole body, successfully throwing himself off the bed. He lands with a loud thud and is immediately on his feet. "It's time for the baby!" "That is what I said. Call the midwife," you suddenly feel the hot wetness under your buttocks. The water broke. For the first time in many years of knowing the King Under the Mountain, you see him ungracefully darting through the room, slipping on the stone floor and nearly tumbling on the floor. Cursing under his breath, he slams his shoulder into the doorframe, yelps and dashes out of the chambers.

After eight hours of the most excruciating pain you have ever known in your life, loud unbecoming swearing in two languages and violently arguing with the midwife, the heir of Durin's line is placed on your chest. The mop of black hair and two steel blue eyes, he is quickly losing the red and purple tinge in his skin, healthy pink replacing them, his miraculous tiny fingers fluttering on your skin. He is washed and wrapped in luschious blankets, and the midwife offers to call the King. Vanity prevails, and you splash water on your face and brush and braid your hair. The maids and midwife's aids rush around, cleaning the bloodied sheets, tidying up the room, helping you to change into a fresh robe. All this time you keep your eyes on the small bundle in the bassinet, occasional squeak and movement under the wraps making your breath hitch and your heart to skip a beat.

The door opens and you hear the King quietly thanking the midwife. The maids scurry out, and the three of you are left in the room alone. You are holding your son in your hands and cannot seem to tear your eyes off him. Sudden shyness overcomes you, and you just cannot bring yourself to look at the King. He sits on the bed near you, and you see his trembling hand to reach for the corner of the receiving blanket. You finally look at him, and you see tears pooling in the blue eys of the King. You move the blanket so he can see and a low raspy gasp burst from his lips.

Two pairs of blue eyes are studying each other. Thror squeaks and the King emit a sound that is both a sob and a laugh. The babe frowns and wrinkles its miniature nose. "Well, he is definitely your son," your voice is scratchy from all the yelling and the almost painful affection for the two men in your life that is constricting your throat. "Look at this scowl." The King lifts his eyes at you, tears unrestricted running down his cheeks.

"That is my son. Thror," the King's voice is thick. "Thror," you agree with a nod. The King touches the tiny cheekbone with the tip of his index finger, and the babe turns his head to it and opens his mouth. "You just offered him dinner, my King." The King lifts his brows. "If you touch their cheek or chin, they instinctively will start sucking on what is near their faces." "Will you feed him now?" "I already have, not much nourishment for him yet, but he does not require much either." The King screws his eyes at your breasts. "When will you feed him again?" "In two hours," you see the eyes of the young prince closing, black lashes fluttering. The King wipes his face and lets out a shuddering sigh.

"Can I stay while you rest?" You smile at his walking on eggshells around you. "I wouldn't let you go, my King," you stretch the arm unoccupied by the babe and he grabs your fingers. He presses his lips to your knuckles, and then again, and again. Then he slightly rises from a bed and cautious of the child he leans in and presses an ardent kiss to your lips. "Would you please put the prince to his bassinet, my Lord?"

Thorin freezes but then in an easy and confident movement he picks up his son. You remember of Fili and Kili and imagine a younger Thorin with his nephews in his arms. But the thought is forgotten in an instant once you realize the picture in front of your eyes.

The proud King Under the Mountain, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror is standing in the middle of the moon lit bedroom holding his first born son in his arms. He is staring at the sleeping face of Thror and a small smile is playing in the corners of his lips. The white of the receiving blanket, the black curtain of the King's hair, the tenderness and reverence in his eyes, everything in this moment is perfect. The lonely King with a burdened heart is gone, and you see happiness and fulfillment gleam in his eyes. And you know that it is not the white glow of Arkenstone that gives life to Erebor, but the burning, beating heart of the King.


	7. Chapter 7

Your ninth Spring is spent in constant arguments with the King. "You are pushing your people too hard, my King," you are pacing in front of him in his study. "Do you not possess enough gold already? You are urging further excavations, but there is no need in them. Erebor is striving, what else do you require?" He is leaning back in his chair, parchments and schematics piling on his desk. You see indignation boiling up in him, but by now he knows better than antagonizing you directly. "If my ancestors had not pursued such, as you say, unnecessary excavations, we would not possess the wealth we have now," his tone is dark. "What is the point in accumulating the wealth if the price for it is so high? You had several casualties in the mines just this past month." He rises and looks out into the night through the window. You two are now residing in larger chambers, still located on the higher levels of the mountain. To please you the King has surrendered the splendour of the Lower Halls for the sake of sunshine and fresh wind coming through large, stained glass windows. Though, you suspect that the youth spent on the road has made him less fond of underground dwelling as well.

"What are you looking for, my King? You will not find mithril under Erebor, if that is what you are hoping for." He grumbles something in Khuzdul under his breath. "How much more gems and golden chalices do you need to be content?" You halt and feel tears pooling in your eyes. He turns sharply, noticing the tremble in your voice. You take a deep breath and reign your emotions. "Is what you have not enough?"

You realize that that what has been troubling you the past months. The King seems possessed, consumed with constant hunger for magnifying his wealth, the halls of Erebor never before so full of treasure. And it pains your heart. In your feminine vanity you have hoped that now, in his new full life, the lust for gold he carries as any of his race and even more so as one from the line of Durin would be tamer. His people reside in luxury and safety of the Lonely Mountain, his Kingdom strong and stable, he is loved and respected, and above all, you hoped having an heir to his throne would pacify him. Thror is a healthy tot, a miniature replica of his father. He is completely Dwarven in his appearance, his development only slightly faster than those of the Dwarven younglings. He is sturdy, stubborn and resilient. What does your King desire that he does not possess?

The King returns to his desk. "I will address the safety of mine labour. I understand your concern, and I am grateful for your consultation." After years of marriage you know that a polite answer and not a heated dispute is a sign that you were neither heard nor taken seriously. You huff and stride out of his study.

You are still indignant, unbraiding your intricate do before the sleep. You let the maid go, not in the mood for any presence in your room, and you are brushing your hair, when a loud rumble rolls through the mountain, shaking the walls and the floor. A sequence of thunderous explosions follows, and you jump on your feet. You dash to the passage leading to the nursery chambers and are met by the frightened nursemaid. She is holding the prince, sleepy and disoriented. You pick him up and press the small warm body into you. "What is it, my queen? Is it a dragon?" "Of course not, go take prince's belongings, some clothes and toys, and return to my chambers."

You carry your son to your sleeping chambers, when a disheveled servant rushes in, "I was sent by the King, there has been a calamity in the forges. He was inquiring of you and the prince. He ordered you to stay in the royal rooms." "Tell him we are unscarthed, and the prince is in our chambers." The servant nods and disappears. The nurse comes back and you pass the already sleeping boy to her.

You rush to your wardrobe and change into a simpler robe. The healer's sack is in your study and you pick it up. "Stay here, Froia. I'll send some servants to assist you, if need arises send for me." She seems to want to say something, but you are already rushing through the passages leading to the lower halls.

The castle is full of running, screaming people, the base of mountain emanating a low roar and violent tremours running through the stone. You are passing the ground floors, and the lower you go, the more devastating the picture you see becomes. The dead and the injured are carried out of the staircases leading down, thicker and thicker smoke rising through the open stairways. You encounter a healer, and he shouts that they are setting up an infirmary in the Northern chambers on the ground level. You can hardly hear him through the clamour and rumble of the raging fire underneath the mountain. You nod and head there.

Hours go by, more and more casualties are brought in. The fire still has not subsided, more and more halls are being devoured, and they are talking about sealing the lower levels. At some point you send a servant to the nursery, and he comes back letting you know that the prince is well and asleep seemingly undisturbed by the explosions. You breath out and continue work. You hear some people asking the servant after the prince, and for a second you smile. For all Erebor Thror is the apple of the eye, the most treasured jewel.

More time flies by, and you feel that you are losing your strength. The morning comes unnoticed, and around noon you feel your knees trembling. A healer comes to you and brings water and a piece of bread and cheese. You have but a minute to eat, and then you return to the injured.

"Have they not yet sealed the low passages?" You hear a healer asking a Dwarf soldier accompanying a stretcher. "The King thinks there are more wounded down there." "The fire will spread on the other halls!" "There are no more people in the halls above the mines, just the forges and treasury. Everyone was moved on the higher floors." "But the gold…" He is sacrificing halls to save more people. You step closer to the talking Dwarves and the soldier bows. "My Queen." "Where is the King?" "In the lower halls, they are trying to reign the fire." You nod, but it is not the time for worrying. You have work to do.

By the end of the day the stream of wounded stops, and you finally sit down. You are hiding your face in your palms when you feel someone tapping your shoulder. It is a servant from the royal halls. "My Queen, the prince has been inquiring of you. He asks permission to come down." You shake you head, too tired to talk. The servant nods understandingly and leaves.

You jerk out of sleep and understand that you feel asleep on a cot, sitting against a wall. You look around, healers are still working, but the frenzy has subsided. You get up and beckon the chief healer. "I am going to the lower halls, Master Groim." "My Queen," the elderly Dwarf looks at you, worried but understanding, "They strongly advise against it. The passages have just been sealed, the smoke down there is still very thick, and the stone walls and the floor are probably still scalded." What he omits is that you have much weaker lungs and overall constitution than a Dwarf, that are believed to be created by Mahal, the Smith of Powers to withstand flame and heat. "I appreciate your concern, Master Dwarf. I assure you I will be careful."

The bottom halls are mostly deserted, blood, ash and soot cover the floor, and it is indeed hard to breath here. On your way you meet some familiar faces, the last of rescuers treading up to the ground floors, no one dares to stop you. At the last turn before the entrance to the sealed halls you meet Balin. The old warrior is leaning on a wall, tears drawing dirty streaks on his grimy face. You step closer and pull him in tight embrace. "All those halls, my Queen, all those people…" You close your eyes to stop your own tears. "Where is he?" "At the very end of the passage, by the blockade." You nod and move away from the Dwarf. He grabs your hand. "You cannot go there, the walls are too hot." "I will be alright." "But..." "These are my walls, Master Dwarf, my mountain. I will not be hurt." You take a wet cloth you brought from the infirmary out of your pocket and start walking.

The air is scorching, painful in your lungs, you are pressing the cloth to your nose and mouth. You sway and try to support yourself placing your hand on the wall. It burns your palm, blisters surely appearing on your skin. The King is sitting on the floor, his head dropped low, arms on his bent knees. You touch his shoulder, and he lifts his eyes. They are hollow, tears running down his cheeks, jaws clenched. "Thror?" "He is in our chambers, he hardly understood what happened." A shudder runs through the King's body. "It is all my fault," his voice is a raspy whisper. "I ruined all. The fire, the mines, the forges, all my fault… They were overworked, the forges did not withstand... You were right..." You sink on the floor in front of him. You are not consoling or reassuring. There will be time for that later. His face contorts in pain. "I wanted to be the most exalted of the Dwarven Kings, the one who brought splendour and enormous wealth to his Kingdom..." His voice is shaking from self-hatred. "Thror would be so proud..." You place your hand on his shoulder, and he drops his head again. "I ruined it all… I should have listened to you..."

You cup his face and make him look into your eyes. "It is your fault, my King," he flinches as if you hit him, "but people followed you because such is the nature of Dwarves. They followed you, and worked in the mines and the forges day and night, and brought more gold to their families, and praised their King, and proclaimed these years the Apex of Erebor. Because they are Dwarves, and so are you. Such is Erebor." His tears are running again, and now you do not restrain yours. "And now the Dwarves of Erebor will endure and regain their strength. And so shall you. For your son and your people."

Something shifts in his eyes, and he pulls you into him, with a pained groan. You are kneeling in front of him, his arms crashing you, tremours running through his body. You stay like that for a long time. And then you slightly push him away from your body. You have but a few seconds left. "Thorin, we need to go up..." He shakes his head. "Just a bit more..." "I can't," he jerks his head up. You take a shuddering breath and lose consciousness.

The fire rages in the sealed passages for another week, ruthless and terrifying. The renovations start after a month, and it takes almost three years to return the former splendour to the lower passages. And although the forges and mines return to their work only three months after the fire, people do not forget the fury of the mountain, more awe and reverence is felt towards it than ever before. The scars from the burns on your palms and knees never disappear completely. They serve as the reminder to the King that the real wealth cannot be mined or forged.


End file.
